


Holy Deepthroat!

by Mercenary



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Biased Narrator, Denial, Lecherous Christophe, M/M, Not Serious, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 02:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14885840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercenary/pseuds/Mercenary
Summary: Prompt: Chris keeps hitting on CiaoCiao, being an absolute nuisance. Celestino keeps telling him to stop, he really does. Except, when he does stop, Ciao Ciao misses it…





	Holy Deepthroat!

**Author's Note:**

> A very late Madness Anniversary piece. Yeah, this is who I am as a person, I have this written BEFORE the actual anniversary, only to wait months because I’m a lazy piece of shit. I guess, here is the first part posted, may it kick my ass into gear to finish it. #GetChrisCiaoDicked2k18 Edit, what is edit?

 

 The first time that Celestino met the Swiss skater was burned into his memory. It had been the first competition with his newest student, Katsuki Yuuri, and he’d walked in to the young, very polite Japanese boy _deepthroating_ Giacometti’s cock.

 Now, it might have been a scene out of a porno; if it wasn’t his very polite student displaying a lack of gag reflex. Yuuri Katsuki was a _good_ and well-mannered Japanese boy. Nothing like Celestino’s rowdy American students. Except, the scene was burned into his eyes. A big part of him wanted to turn on his heel and flee far away like etiquette demanded. Unfortunately, he was still struggling to process that Katsuki Yuuri of all his students was…

 His brain was hurting and he longed for a strong stiff drink. Only thinking of something stiff immediately made his thoughts plummet into the sewer. There was more than one stiff _thing_ in the hotel room. Neither belonging to Celestino Cialdini.

 Before he could flee, he froze again, having been caught by the Swiss man. Giacometti turned his face, ridiculously long-lashed eyelids fluttering, and a wicked smirk on his smug face. He even jerked his hips forward, as if he wasn’t plunged deep enough into Celestino’s student’s throat.

  _Holy Mother of God_ , Celestino screamed silently inside his own head. _This was a nightmare!_ He didn’t even realise that it was all anatomically possible and how was Yuuri still alive? Not to mention that the smug-faced twenty-something year old was enjoying Celestino’s horror. His tanned arm stretched down to Yuuri’s head, where it gripped the thick black hair and tugged. Pulling Yuuri’s head back enough that veteran figure skater Coach Celestino was preparing to die on the spot. 

 This was the moment that he prayed for his heart to give out. Anything to spare him the horror and shame of being seen seeing this liaison between the two young men. Only to see his missing blue hairband covering Yuuri’s eyes. For a moment, he even felt indignant about the unexpected theft, until he remembered what situation he was in. But in his relief he turned to leave, right as the he saw the blonde man splatter his release over Celestino’s students face, from the corner of his eye. 

 Not taking any chances, he turned and fled the room.  Not even caring that the door made a small click as it shut. He could always get a blue hairband after he maxed out his credit card at the very expensive hotel bar.

 Never once considering that he’d been part of a setup.

* * *

 

 Now, the second time he met Christophe Giacometti, he was in the gents’ toilets. As the blond man with a darker undercut positively dressed Celestino down with his eyes. Striking green eyes drifting downwards lazily as he sized him up. Making the older man feel objectified and a little confused. 

The incident had never been mentioned between Celestino and Yuuri.  In fact, it seemed as if the younger man had no idea what Celestino had seen. Even if sometimes Celestino relived the scene when working with Yuuri.

 “Such a pleasure, _Celestino_ ,” Christophe drawled as his eyes lingered below the navel for some reason. “It has been such a long time. Especially after the fun of our last meeting.”

 His own light green eyes darted to the off-white tile wall, as he considered bashing his head against it. Why did the smug seducer have to come in as Celestino finished peeing? Life was unfair and despite having entered his forties, he was still lost when it came to be dealing with the shameful dirty secret. 

 If only he had been free to live his life without seeing Yuuri Katsuki choking on Giacometti’s cock.

 Unable to speak he settled for a courteous nod.

 “Not that this one isn’t fun.” Christophe Giacometti winked and smoothly gestured at Celestino’s crotch. Such a bold and shameless action that the taupe brown-haired man felt a rebuke rising within him. 

 Celestino clenched his hand into a fist. 

 “But if you are leaving I thought I should warn you that your fly is unzipped.”  When Giacometti spoke, the rebuke rising within Celestino immediately died as mortification came squealing to life.

 He immediately dropped a hand to his fly, zipped it right up. No more window onto his crotch for the viewing pleasure of others. 

 The other man pouted as if he was being denied something. The ugly fluorescent lighting did Celestino no favours in the mirror to his left. But he wasn’t clueless to the flirtation going on, the one directed to him, by the same man he’d seen his student deepthroating.  Celestino was _never_ going to get past the deepthroating; the unexpected, intimate portal into the private life of Yuuri Katsuki.

 As a coach he had to have a good understanding of his students, just not Yuuri’s admittedly impressive ability with making the most of his throat muscles. That had led to the loss of his favourite hair band that was a souvenir from Celestino’s Olympics glory. He didn’t hold grudges, it wasn’t in his nature to do so. What he did hold was a vivid replay of walking in on his hair band being desecrated with semen belonging to Christophe Giacometti. 

 So, somehow, he found the situation off-putting. Celestino thought it quite reasonable, having seen the man in the nude, being given some rather intense fellatio action. Maybe he was fixated too much on the whole thing and would be better off wiping it from his mind. Sadly, he had never been good at purging his mind of anything…

 Celestino did what any functional adult would do, he fled confrontation with a half hand twitch of a wave goodbye. Wishing that he would indeed find antibacterial hand wash in his rental car. 

 He smashed his side into the opening restroom door on his way out. 

 Thus, marked the end of his second meeting with Christophe Giacometti. 

* * *

 

Meeting three, kind of, involved forward thinking and plenty of alcohol. Starting in a hotel bar, drinking socially, when a hand touches Celestino’s thigh. Ordinarily, he’d have been put out at a wandering stray hand, except for some reason he’d been pleased. Even shifted to give better access and for some reason was wearing very wide leg knee-shorts. Nothing about it was particularly logical.

 As the hand belonged to Christophe Giacometti, there was naturally a shift of Celestino’s thoughts back to their first meeting. Everything always led to that when around Giacometti. The exploring hand squeezing his crotch was to blame for the forming bulge; definitely not the memory of the first meeting between them seared into his memory.

 As to how everyone else in the bar was unaware of what was going on, it never occurred to him to consider it. He gripped his glass tightly, squeezing it in tandem with the grip on his dick. Because the exploring hand was already up his shorts and getting to work.

The glass in his hand bumped against his prominent jaw repeatedly. Not a drop reaching his mouth since it was splattering every time he jerked forwards. Hitting against the edge of the side-booth table. 

  _Mary, Mother of God_ , he’d internally groaned. Casting his mind back to the 90s - when he’d been tied up and pounded into by a particularly adventurous couple - in a hostel in the middle of nowhere. Just like that, this whole hand job in public screamed of bad ideas and poor self-control.  It could only get worse if Giacometti dropped a fork and got onto his hands and knees beneath the table.  Or was that it getting better?

 Finally, Celestino understood that his head, both of them really, were not trustworthy.  One of then honestly needed for him to take a firm hand to it.  A hand that didn’t belong to Christophe Giacometti.

 Salutations to the Holy Virgin Mary fell from his lips in a blasphemous torrent. His shorts now unpleasantly sticky with something the Holy Virgin had never likely touched.  It probably would have been less embarrassing if he’d just wet himself, as opposed to milky white baby batter splattering within the confines of his shorts.

 Truly, all Celestino could think, was how he would have preferred to piss himself. Drunken incontinence was far better than being a exhibitionist pervert at a ISU event. Parents entrusted their children to him for the highest standard of teaching for Christ’s sake.  But it was at that point where everything got strange as Christophe Giacometti disappeared from view, right before his eyes. He furrowed his thick brows as he attempted to make sense of things, and before he could…

 -

One very mortified and sticky forty-year old man woke up in his own bed. That man being Celestino, even as he wished fervently for it to be anyone but him. Something about having a vivid wet dream of a man twenty years his junior giving him a hand job in public seemed particularly awful.  Not so much the age, given how well Italian men of his stock aged like fine wine, simply because it was Giacometti.

 A man that he had first met, as he was getting his cock deepthroated by Celestino’s nice, polite and reserved student.  Yuuri was such a quiet boy! Keeping to himself, listening to training advice, getting into zero trouble. It really shouldn’t bother Celestino as much as it did seem to. He blamed Giacometti.

 Celestino reached up and fondled his chin.  He tried his best to purge his mind of lewd sexy dreams involving Giacometti. Who clearly was some sort of deviant considering his recent displays on the ice. From one coach or another, Celestino had _heard_ things about costume specialist cleaning bills relating to Giacometti.

  _Thank God in all his holy grace that he had no skaters like that_ , Celestino thought to himself gladly.  _Yuuri would never skate to some kind of erotic or sexy choreography._

With the discomfort of his sticky stomach, Celestino got himself up and out of bed.  He somewhat awkwardly attempted to avoid the portrait of the Virgin Mary. A family heirloom that had been blessed in the Vatican…

  _His Grandparents would be rolling in their graves, he’d defiled the Virgin Mary..._  As quickly as that realisation hit him, he was on his knees before the portrait with a torrent of prayers spilling from his lips, as he begged for divine forgiveness.

 

* * *

 

 Meeting four caused an internal crisis, as he glared at the Swiss, who had Yuuri smiling softly.  His big hands curled into menacing fists and he eyed the interactions suspiciously.  Giacometti could not be trusted to keep his hands off Celestino’s skater. With the short programme happening the next day; it was the duty of a Coach to ensure there was no sex before bed. No matter how much he trusted that Yuuri was sensible: he had been a young man once too, and sometimes bad decisions were made. 

 Like Worlds of ‘99, when there was rumoured to have been an orgy of international and discipline variety. It was true, Celestino knew that much. Given how he and his dance partner had both limped after a bukkake turned into a banging success of an orgy. They’d winced their way into claiming a bronze, though.  Which was why Celestino was right to be on his guard.

 Of course, the object of his attention was sending flirty winks at Celestino’s direction. Taunting him as he put his hands on Yuuri, apparently casually, though Celestino felt his blood pressure rise when he spotted a butt squeeze. 

 He was halfway into leaping over the barrier and onto the ice when he stopped himself. 

 Yuuri Katsuki was an adult and capable of telling Giacometti to stop. Celestino had no right to intervene, unless, of course, he was asked to do so by Yuuri. Despite his polite, distant manner; nerves when it came to be competing, the other man knew his own mind. And any unwanted intervention by his Coach was not something that he would appreciate. That was why Celestino settled for a glower.

 “Tonight, will be such fun, Yuu-ri.” Giacometti practically purred, he put his wandering hand on Celestino’s student.

  _Oh, that was where the line was drawn_ , Celestino thought, marching forward for about a quarter of a marching step, before he banged into the barrier in front of him. It wasn’t the impression he wanted to make, even if it proved effective in drawing Yuuri and Giacometti to pay attention to him.  Both gliding over practically arm in arm.

 “That looked like it hurt,” Giacometti offered, long eyelashes lowered over those fiendish eyes. “You seem out of sorts, Coach Celestino. Anything I can do to give you a _helping_ hand?”

 Celestino debated the consequences of yanking Yuuri away from the lech.  “No helping hands.” 

 What he had to remember was that Yuuri was a young man at the peak of his virility in life. He was capable to make his own choices providing they didn’t impact his skating. Celestino just didn’t trust Giacometti at all. Just the sight of those smug smirks, pouting lips and enticingly seductive eyes made him boil up inside! 

The devil in question smiled in response. “Perhaps another time, Coach?”

 Celestino tripped without even being in motion after those parting words. 


End file.
